


One Endless Sentence.

by Mormortrash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Sheriff Stilinski, Alcoholic Sheriff Stilinski, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Nightmares, Nogitsune, Panic Attacks, Recovering Sheriff Stilinski, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sick Claudia Stilinski, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, read with caution, shouting, this is very triggering, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 18:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mormortrash/pseuds/Mormortrash
Summary: Stiles and his dad talk and work through Stiles' mental health. Stiles is starting to feel like his life is one long, never-ending sentence.Maybe Derek Hale will change all of that, or maybe, with a little help from his dad, his friends and everyone else who cares about him, he'll change all of that himself.[MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM, PAST SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, REFERENCED EATING DISORDER, DEPRESSION, ANXIETY, ADHD, MENTIONS OF SUGGESTIVE ABUSIVE SHERIFF STILINSKI AND CLAUDIA STILINSKI, MENTIONS OF ALCOHOLIC PARENTS, AND RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC PARENTS. THIS IS VERY TRIGGERING. READ WITH CAUTION.]





	One Endless Sentence.

Night was always Stiles’ favourite time of the day. He could read without people seeing him, watch anything he wanted to watch. And when his dad worked an overnight shift, it was much better. He didn’t have to worry about being too loud, too hyperactive. He could just exist without his dad telling him what to do, how to act, how to behave. So, when his dad came up to his room at around 6 pm, uniform on, he found the seventeen-year-old sitting calmly at this desk, staring at a laptop screen that wasn’t on, paper in front of him with words illegible, written in his scratchy handwriting. It was only when his father cleared his throat that the kid turned his head and looked up, forcing himself to bring his eyes up to meet his dad. 

“What’s up?” Stiles said, a little quietly before raising his voice and repeating the question. His dad eyed him suspiciously; it wasn’t like Stiles to be quiet, no matter how hard Noah tried. The kid was always moving, always loud, shouting a little too loudly, fiddling with his pen or tapping his fingers against a surface. Then, Noah relaxed. He figured if his son wanted to tell him something, he had to trust that Stiles would come to him. Not that it was likely. Stiles wasn’t the kind of person to share information with anyone, he didn’t want the guilt. Everyone had their own problems to deal with without adding his too. Finally, Stiles shifted on his chair, shutting down the lid of his laptop before shoving the paper to the back of the desk. 

“I’m heading off to work, okay? It’s an overnight shift, with some of the deputies taking time off, we’re down a couple of guys. Are you gonna be okay?” Noah’s voice was calm and gentle, a complete parallel to the man Stiles remembered from the previous night. His father had come home from work at around 8 pm, went into the kitchen and picked a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. Stiles had come home a couple of minutes later after his dad’s second glass and had frozen up in the doorway at the sight of his dad with the whiskey glass in one hand, a picture of his mom in the other. He’d been still trying not to be noticed by the man at the table. He took in his dad’s appearance, the three buttons of his uniform that were undone, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, pink cheeks and hazy eyes. Stiles had suggested throwing the booze out three months ago, but his dad had promised it was just there for guests, deputies that came over for work from time to time. Naïvely, Stiles had believed him. He had trusted him. Bad choice, said that pessimistic voice in his head. Lightly flicking his head to the left, the kid prayed the voice would go away, at least until he could finish talking to his dad. Thankfully, it complied. He took a sharp breath in before lifting his eyes up a little further to meet his dads, giving a tiny nod to reassure his father that the words had been heard. 

“Got it. What time will you be back?” Placing a hand on the desk, he rubbed his fingertips against the grain of the wood, dropping his gaze once more back to his papers. “What are you going to have for dinner?” Of course, they didn’t talk about what had happened the previous night, they never did. They danced around the elephant in the room for as long as it took for it to leave. And Stiles didn’t expect anything different this time. 

“Early in the morning, I imagine, probably around three. I was thinking about just ordering to the station.” His dad explained, watching every move his son made, like a predator tracking its prey. The kid took a breath in to talk but his dad cut him off before he had the chance. “I left money on the table, $30. If you want to order anything. There’s an app now. I know you don’t like talking on the phone.” His dad tried to understand what went through Stiles' head, what he was thinking, why his head stopped him from doing things that, for others, would have been seen as trivial, like a phone call. When Stiles was a kid, he would refuse to take phone calls, family members call to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘happy birthday’ and Stiles would refuse, every time, he’d end up crying and screaming. Noah tried to be strict, thinking he was just doing it to get attention. He tried various different methods, refusing to phone the doctors for Stiles, telling him that he had to phone himself. Of course, Stiles didn’t, and doctors’ appointments came and went. There were other signs too, the inability to sit still for more than a couple of minutes, even at weddings or family events. Noah would yell but he could see it wasn’t helping the situation in the slightest. It only scared Stiles into just refusing to go anywhere where he’d be expected to sit still for more than three minutes. Stiles was eleven when Claudia and Noah decided that they would finally take him to the doctor, Noah making the phone call without even asking Stiles if he would. When he went, it took the doctor a matter of minutes to diagnose him with anxiety, ADHD and, the major blow, depression. Medicines were described, therapy sessions were made, and Stiles made to attend. He didn’t want to, there was crying and screaming and even panic attacks, as his doctor told them which made his mom and dad feel helpless. Their kid would struggle to breathe and all they could do was watch and wait. His father shook the memory from his mind, glancing down briefly to shake the thought, before lifting his gaze back to his boy. 

“Yeah, I got the email from the pizza place. I’ll see. I might not be hungry so… I don’t know.” The voice was quiet, close to breaking. He was struggling to hold himself together, wanting to yell, wanting to scream. Of course, his dad had been expecting the response, which is why the elder man smirked and cleared his throat, shifting from leaning against the doorway to straightening up, his hands in his pockets. Checking the clock on the wall outside Stiles’ room, he moved inside and sat down on the bed, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as he stared down at the ground beneath his feet. The room, as always, was a mess, the covers hanging half off the bed, pillow in the middle of the bed, half full glasses of water placed around the room, empty plates stacked up. Noah inhaled and finally looked up at the boy who had turned his chair around, mimicking his father’s position, leaning forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. The elder couldn’t help but smile at him, shaking his head. Siles eyed his father cautiously, unsure of why he was smiling. “What?” The tension between them started to melt away, Stiles’ shoulders slumping as he relaxed and breathed a laugh. Both of the men straightened up and exhaled a sigh of relief. 

“Stiles, you know you need to eat.” The younger of the men stood and picked up a plate from the desk, adding it to the stack that was rising on his bedside table, shaking his head as he crossed the room to sit down on the bed next to Noah, shoulder to shoulder with his dad. “I’m serious, Stiles. More than Pop Tarts for every meal of the day.” Again, they both breathed a laugh, Stiles leaning a little closer to his dad, head resting on his shoulder with a small sigh, nodding in agreement at his statement. The kid had never been one for eating, a fussy eater overall, made worse by the fact that always had a tantrum if he couldn’t sit in a particular seat, which was hell if they ever went out to restaurants. Finally, Stiles sighed and nodded, looking at him and smiling faintly, clearing his throat. 

“I promise, I will download the app and I will order myself a pizza. Who knows, I might invite Scott over.” The last sentence comes out as a whisper, unsure of himself even as he says it, anxiety creeping up the back of his neck and snatching him around the chest, like ropes tightening, crushing his chest. With a gulp, he pushed the feeling away as best as he could, but his dad had gotten good at noticing that hitch before the exhale, the red flag. A hand grabs Stiles’ shoulder and slides across his back, catching him in a safety net and pulling him into the familiar warmth. “Dad,” he muttered, but it came out as a gasp more than anything else. His body got heavy and he let himself sink further into his dad’s side. Suddenly there were arms around him and he was being pulled closer to the man on the bed next to him. Unconsciously, one hand gripped on to his father’s uniform shirt, grabbing it with reckless abandon, pulling himself closer to the comforting touch. “Dad,” a sob this time, escaping his lips before he can shove it down. Again, the arms tightened, and Stiles shifted closer, letting the floodgates open, gasping breaths and forced exhales filling the air around them. “I’m fine, I’m- I’m fine,” the words were forced out between gasps, hands beginning to shake. “It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay. I’m right here, you feel me?” The kid nodded frantically, forcing himself to gulp against the bile rising in his throat, leaning further into the arms of his guardian. “I’m going to let go with one arm, okay? Is that okay, Stiles? I need to phone in, I’m staying home tonight.” He talked over his son's protests, shaking his head and shushing him gently. “Don’t start. You need me. I can see that even if you can’t, so I’m staying.” He tilts his son's jaw up and took in his face, the tears running down his face, the parted lips, the way his eyes were frantically scanning his dad’s face. “I’m going to let go, okay?” Stiles finally nodded and, slowly, his own hand loosened and slid away from Noah’s shirt, a sign that it was okay, he could let go. 

The sheriff let his arms relax and then slide away, one hand lingering on the boys back. His free hand went to his pocket and he retrieved his phone, unlocking it and sliding the screen down until he got to the number for Deputy Jordan Parrish. Selecting it, the number dialled, the man brought the phone to his ear, other hand still resting on Stiles’ back, a gentle pressure, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. Over the years, Noah had gotten better at dealing with the 3 am panic attacks, the anxiety attacks over phone calls, the routines that make his son feel safe. Stiles could hear the man on the phone and his dad, hearing both sides of the conversation, the gentle greeting, Noah keeping his voice soft to stop Stiles from spiralling deeper. He listened to the gentle greetings, the quick exchange of updates, the calm explanation of the situation happening, and then the final ‘give Stiles my best, Sherriff’ before the goodbyes. Once the phone call was done, Noah placed his phone on the bed and took the time away from Stiles to remove his jacket, his badge, nothing sharp around Stiles when he’s like this, and his gun, which had been the centre of many incidents before when Stiles was in a state like this. He placed the gun and the badge in his jacket and wrapped them all up, placing it at the end of the bed, away from trembling figure before moving back, sliding his arms back around him, pulling him down with him as they lay back, hand firmly rubbing between his shoulders as he whispered against his hair, telling him it was going to be okay. It took Stiles more than two hours to finally stop sobbing into his dad’s chest, it took him more than two hours to catch his breath, to stop hyperventilating. 

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing he said, screwing his eyes shut and pressing his cheek against his dad's chest, relaxing at the sound of the steady beat, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. Noah smiled faintly at the sound of his son’s voice and shook his head, pulling him a little closer, which Stiles accepted, shifting to help. “I’m really sorry, dad, I didn’t mean to… It just… it’s too much, all of it, school and we’re starting applications and I know what I want to do, it’s just the whole system is stressing me out. I’ve been researching and my mental health, it doesn’t disqualify me but I have to be cleared by a doctor. I’m managing it and it’s fine, but what if they don’t see it that way?”

“Stiles,” his dad starts, voice firm for the purpose of catching Stiles’ attention. Of course, it worked, the kid inhaled sharply and stopped babbling, turning his head to look at his dad. “Your anxiety, your depression, the ADHD, it’s all being managed. You’ll be fine. You want any help in applying?” The words lifted a tension off the boy and he let out a sigh of relief, letting himself relax, nodding at the offer. He shifted finally, sitting up and rubbing his face firmly, his eyes to reduce the sting, leaning over to grab his laptop from the desk, along with the charger, plugging it into the computer and pressing the power button. Once it was on, he shifted back to sit next to his dad, who had taken the time to sit up, back against the headboard. The kid shifted and sat next to him, looking at his dad for a second before starting to explain what he wanted to do. 

“I started this application to apply for an FBI internship in Virginia. At Quantico.” He said, pushing the laptop half on to his dad’s lap, so they could both see the screen, the application open and half filled out, his name, birthdate, social security number, his mom's name and his dad’s name. “It’s six months, I’d live on campus, and it’s about five hours on the plane.” His dad was nodding along, like he knew. Stiles frowned at him and Noah turned to look at him before smirking. “You’ve wanted to go to the FBI Academy since you were 13, Stiles, you think I didn’t do any research?” Noah turned back to the screen leaving Stiles just staring at him, a little surprised, to say the least. He finally dragged his eyes away from his father to look back at the screen, reading through the other information he’d filled out, that he’d been diagnosed with depression, anxiety and his ADHD, his short stay in Eichen House, all his medical history was written down. His dad scanned through it all, nodding in agreement as he took it all in. “This is good, Stiles, I’m… I’m really proud of you.” Stiles couldn’t help but notice the way his father’s voice was slightly strained, looking down at the bed so he wouldn’t look at his dad. 

“But you don’t think I’ll get it,” The words were stated as a fact, Stiles thought he knew what was going through his dad’s head, as he always thought he did. This time he prayed he was wrong. His dad sighed and shifted the laptop off their laps and down to the bed, resting it on the mattress before turning to look at him. 

“That’s not what I said, is it?” 

“So why did you sound like you were forcing yourself to say that?” Stiles knew he should stop. He should just shut up, stop talking. His dad rested a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, making Stiles flinch a little but then slowly relax under the touch. The elder man took a breath before finally admitting what he’d been thinking. 

“You’re going really far away, kid, last week you had a panic attack going shopping. I had to come and pick you up remember?” The words were accompanied by his dad’s hand sliding over his shoulders, pulling his son back into him. “I’m not saying that I don’t think you’ll get it. Jesus, Stiles, if they don’t take you, they’re insane. You’ll be a great asset to any team that you work on, FBI or not.” Stiles nodded at the words, that imaginary taut rope around his chest starting to loosen, listening to everything his dad said. “Stiles, I am so proud of you. You’re my son. And everything that you’ve done, dealing with your ADHD, taking your medication, everything, dealing with your anxiety and… the depression.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it, dad, I know that you’re… I know you don’t like talking about it. But it’s not your fault, you know. That I’m… depressed, it’s just problems in my brain chemistry. It’s not about you or how you raised me, you know that.” Stiles explained, keeping his eyes down at the bed, so he didn’t have to look at him. “You know that, right?” He asked again wanting to ensure that his dad knew that none of this was his fault. His dad smiled softly and nodded at the words, watching as Stiles put his arm around his dad’s stomach, shifting into him a little more.

“I know that, Stiles. Well, I mean, there’s doubt, somewhere, sometimes, of course there is, if I could have done things better. I wonder if I wasn’t there enough. There are a lot of things I wonder about.” Noah admitted, and he shook his head, brushing a hand through Stiles’ hair, brushing it back. “I love you, kid, I don’t say it enough. I’m here for you, kid.” Stiles rubbed his eyes, looking up at his dad. “You know that, right? That you can come to me.”

“I know, dad. I just don’t want you to feel overwhelmed or stressed.”

“I’d rather have a little more on my mind, Stiles, than come home to find you sobbing on the bathroom floor being unable to breathe. We’ve been in that situation before. Recently, you’d started to open up to me more, but when I came in today, I was hoping that you would tell me. What was wrong.” Stiles inhaled deeply and cleared his throat, looking over at him and watching him before glancing away again, whispering a soft apology. “Stiles, I don’t want your apology, I want you to stop shutting me out. Stop pushing me away, I want to be there for you. You’re-… You’re my baby boy.” Noah’s voice was desperate, almost pleading. It hurt Stiles, making his chest flare up with the feeling of guilt, guilt that he’d made his dad feel like that. He opened his mouth to talk but it occurred to him what he would say if he did speak, if he did put it into words. He’d not just be acknowledging the elephant in the room, he’d be announcing it. Bringing up his father’s drinking habits was risky, they’d come so far, Noah had just held Stiles for over two hours, and it wasn’t the first time. 

There have been times when Stiles screamed at Noah, saying that he was done, that he wanted to die, that Noah should just let him die. There was one time where Noah had come home to find him on the floor with a bottle of pills, desperately trying to open the child safety cap, but with the amount his hands were trembling, he couldn’t do it. Noah had broken the door down and found Stiles sat shirtless in the shower, just in his sweatpants, the bottle held tightly in his hands, the boy sobbing that he couldn’t do it anymore, that the anxiety was too much for him to deal with, that it was all too much. He’d made the mistake of rushing over without examining what he was wearing. Having just come home from work, Noah still had the gun in its holster on his belt, and when he got close enough, the teenager reached out and took the gun before his dad could stop him. Having grown up around his dad, other cops and having spent a lot of time hanging out with the deputies at the station as a kid, Stiles had a wide range of knowledge when it came to using a gun. With ease, he flicked the safety off and pressed the gun to his head, pressing it against his forehead, hands wrapped around the grip, one finger pressing a little too firmly on the trigger of the black handgun. It took three hours of Stiles pleading with his dad to just let him do it and three hours of his dad begging Stiles to let go of the gun. It was painstaking, and it was messy, and Stiles fell apart, but they got back up again. They’d get back up again from this too, Stiles knew that. Finally, he inhaled and nodded his head, clearing his throat as he sat up a little. 

“Last night,” he could see his father visibly tense from the memory of what had occurred the previous night. It had been a rough day at work for the sheriff, the animal attacks kept coming and coming and there no further in the case than they were three months ago. Before Claudia, Stiles’ mother, was taken by frontotemporal dementia, he would come home and talk to her for hours about police work and seemingly dead-end investigations. She would pretend to be interested and he’d share stories over a bottle of red. It was when Stiles was seven that she started to develop symptoms, starting with the personality changes, the way she would look at Stiles changed, no more gentle smiles, no more affectionate gestures, it was like all emotion had been drained from her. She turned impulsive, started to overeact to things, which scared the hell out of Stiles. 

A particular memory he had was when he dropped his juice in the kitchen and the sudden shouting. He ran away, so scared and hid away in Noah’s closet in his parent’s room, wrapping himself in a coat and sinking to the back to hide himself, trying not to cry too loudly. He stayed there for four hours until his dad got home from work and went looking for him after reassuring his hysterical wife. When Noah came into the room, Stiles pushed the cupboard door open from inside and slowly peeked out, red eyes and tears down his cheeks, still wrapped in his father’s spare sheriffs jacket, the sleeves hanging over his hands. Noah had smiled at the sight of his baby boy, scooped up the kid and placed him on his feet outside the closet, gently folding the sleeves up so that Stiles could see his hands and he had gently wiped away his tears, cupping his cheeks and taking in Stiles’ face. The boy had sniffled and cried some more, asking his daddy if he was in trouble. He remembered the man shrugging and shaking his head, picking him back up and sitting him on the bed. “I think… that accidents happen sometimes. And you are not in trouble, Stiles.” The kid had nodded and snuggled into Noah happily, taking a while to calm down. “Is mommy still mad at me?” Noah sighed and rested the kid on his hip, shaking his head and breathing a laugh. “No, sweetheart. I think mommy overreacted and I think she’s got a lot going on and I think we’re going to get her some help.” The words calmed Stiles down and he started growing up pretty quickly after the diagnosis, helping out all the time, asking if there was anything he could do, anything Noah needed help with. He started getting himself up for school in the morning, getting himself dressed, he’d started making himself sandwiches. 

After two months of the diagnosis, he’d began shedding the use of ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ and opted for ‘mom’ and ‘dad.’ It wasn’t long before other symptoms kicked in, including the trouble speaking, she would stumble over words, trapped in a loop, she would repeat words, get them in the wrong order. One day was particularly bad when she was trying to get a sentence out, but everything kept coming out in the wrong order, the words coming out at the wrong time, the wrong sounds. It frightened Stiles so much that he ran away from home that day. Admittedly, he didn’t get very far, only to Scott’s house which was down the street. When he got there, he had a packed bag with clothes and snacks taken from the kitchen, drowning in his father’s deputy jacket. Melissa, Scott’s mom, invited him in and gave him some cookies before messaging Noah to inform him that his little deputy was safe and sound. Noah was there within the next fifteen minutes, the door swinging open to reveal a very stern looking sheriff. Stiles gasped and ran to him, the man crouching down to wrap his arms around the young boy, picking up and holding him close. Stiles was taken home shortly after, a ride in the front seat of his dad’s police car, receiving a lecture on the way home, his father yelling which made Stiles curl away from him and cry. 

When they got home, Stiles’ mother had already gone to bed, despite it being 5 pm. Stiles explained what had happened, that he’d gotten scared and that he was sorry, that he’d never do it again. That night, at around 11 pm, after being put to bed, Stiles crawled out of bed, wearing one of his father’s shirts, space-themed pyjama bottoms. He’d padded downstairs, pushed open the kitchen door to find his dad with a bottle of whiskey, half empty. “Dad?” “Jesus, Stiles, can you never stay where I put you?” Silence. “Goddamn it, kid, what the hell is wrong with you? Normally you can’t shut up and now, nothing?” Stiles wished he hadn’t come down, the room smelt strongly of a source Stiles couldn’t identify but he didn’t like it. Again, he stayed silent, on edge, edging back towards the door. “Just go the fuck back to bed, okay? You can be a hyperactive pain in the ass tomorrow.” He remembered crying himself silently to sleep that night. 

Finally, Stiles came back to himself, the smell of whiskey still lingering in his memories. His father was looking at him across the table, guilt set so deeply in his eyes. He cleared his throat and looked at Noah before glancing down at the table again. “Last night,” he tried again, licking his lower lip before continuing, “I came home and saw you drinking… I saw that you were… The whiskey, the glass in your hand. The picture of mom, the one you always look at. I didn’t speak, I just took the glass and the bottle and poured it away, I put the picture back on the pinboard, and I didn’t want to mention it. But that’s why I didn’t want to tell you, or talk to you, I- I didn’t want to hear what you really think of me.”

“Stiles- “

“Don’t. Heard it before, dad, I’ve heard it all before, okay? Everything that you think of me, I remember all of it, I remember everything, even if you don’t.” His chest was starting to tighten again, and it hurt, god, did it hurt. “I remember the six years of coming home from school, from Scott’s, I remember every time I found you with that goddamn glass. Trust me, I’ve heard everything you could possibly call me.” He was choking up. The words crumbling as he let them out, tears welling up in his eyes. “So, you know what, I don’t talk anymore, I just don’t, because it hurts, it hurts like hell, dad. And I didn’t want to hear it today.” He knew he was talking way too fast but he couldn’t shut himself up.

“Stiles!” A gasp comes from the boy at the sudden shout and he gulps, pushing his head into his hands and forcing back the sobs that threaten to come crashing through. Then suddenly a pressure on his back, a warm presence on his lower back, rubbing to show that it was real, that Stiles wasn’t imagining it. “I know, I’ve been a jerk, I shouldn’t have been drinking last night, and I am so sorry.” Stiles sniffled and turned his head away, wanting to scream to relieve the pressure building up in his chest. “And I’m going to stop drinking, Stiles. I know that you’ve heard it before, every promise has been empty. But I swear. This time it’s going to be different. I’m going to prove it to you. So, if you need me, I need you to tell me and talk to me. I want you to trust me, kid.” The boy stayed silent for a moment before nodding his head, praying that, this time, his trust wouldn’t be broken, praying that maybe this time, it would be for real. So, he smiled, and he rested his hand on his dad’s wrist and he forced himself to meet his gaze.

“This time you really won’t go back? No more alcohol in the house, dad, no more hiding whiskey like a teenager. Just-… promise you won’t go straight back the second things get a little harder?” His dad looked down, his chest filling with regret and he nodded. “Can we go and pour away the whiskey in your sock drawer now?” The kid asked hopefully, turning his head to look at his dad, who laughed and ruffled his hair, nodding his head and moving to stand, making sure to stay on his right side, putting a barrier between his son and his work jacket, badge and gun. He didn’t want to risk it. Offering his hand, Noah pulled the boy up, grabbing his arm as he stood. Stiles’ knees were weak, trembling beneath the weight of his body, legs like jelly as he took a step towards the door. 

“It’s okay,” his dad promised, taking Stiles’ hand and resting his other hand on the boy’s bicep so he could help him keep steady. “Take your time, I’m right here. Lean on me.” And Stiles did, gripping his hand a little tighter than necessary as he used the elder man as a crutch, breathing a soft laugh. “You a little stiff?”

“Just a little. It’s okay, I can make it,” he promised, making his dad laugh.

“I didn’t doubt it.” Stiles smiled in response. 

“Thanks, dad.” 

“Anytime, kid.”


End file.
